


Among Trees

by Fiannly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 00:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiannly/pseuds/Fiannly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of Stiles’ earliest memories of his mother was sitting on her lap in front of a fire his dad built in their backyard. His mother loved to celebrate the summer solstice. She called it Kupala Night, and it never occurred to Stiles that this was unusual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Beta and handholding by [eloiserummaging](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eloiserummaging)

One of Stiles’ earliest memories of his mother was sitting on her lap in front of a fire his dad built in their backyard. His mother loved to celebrate the summer solstice. She called it Kupala Night, and it never occurred to Stiles that this was unusual. Each year they would stay up late and roast marshmallows, and he would try to brown the outside of his marshmallow without catching it on fire. He succeeded about half of the time, which was good enough for him. If it was warm enough, his dad would fill up the kiddie pool and Stiles would take turns swimming in it between roasting marshmallows.

Once his dad took them to the park after it closed so they could walk in the preserve. His mom had spent a lot of time walking the trails in the preserve with Stiles after school, and his dad had come along when he had time. While they walked she would tell Stiles stories that were more interesting than any he found in books from the library. Stories about firebirds and grey wolves, and a man that was protector of the forest. Her voice would get fond when she told the story about the forest man. When he was older, Stiles wished he’d thought to ask her more about it.

She said one day he would find a fern flower, and it would lead him to a person that would love him as much as she did.

“How would I know what flower it is?” It sounded ridiculous that a flower would have that much power.

“You would just know.” She swung their clasped hands gently between them while they walked, smiling softly down at him. “It grows on a fern, on the eve of Kupala Night, and shines in the dark like a lantern.”

“That’s silly, Mom.”

“I thought it was too. But then I found mine, and the very next day I met your father.”

A few weeks later, they learned about plants in school and Stiles asked the teacher about ferns. He came home with a note, saying he got into an argument with the teacher. “Mom, my teacher said ferns don’t grow flowers.”

He expected her to be mad at him, but instead she just smiled and hugged him to her. “They do for special people.”

She told him the flower was a secret that was best kept to themselves. Stiles was good with secrets, especially if she wanted him to keep one. His mother’s secrets were very important.

Stiles was nine when she pulled down the old wooden box that always sat on the highest shelf of the bookcase in their living room. Until then, the box was something that he was allowed to look up at from the floor, but never touch. It was made of old, thick wood, with an intricate flower carved on the lid. She sat on the couch with him and carefully opened it so he could see inside. It contained what looked like an ordinary dried flower to him. He didn’t understand why she thought it was so great. But the look of happiness on her face when she showed it to him made him want to believe it was something special. She told him that he would understand when he found one of his own.

Then a few months later, she was gone. Stiles was sure the world would end, because why would it keep going without his mother there?

Stiles didn’t remember the funeral, or the drive to the cemetery. The whole week was mostly a blur when he thought back on it, which was as little as possible.

His next memory was realizing it was Kupala Night. His dad didn’t build a fire, too busy grieving to care. Stiles waited all day, but when night fell and his dad never even mentioned it, he slipped out of the back door and ran, taking shelter in between the trees of the preserve. He didn’t care where he was going because it didn’t matter anymore. His mother was gone and his father was hurting and Kupala would never be the same.

Despite growing up walking the preserve with his mother, he still managed to get turned around, though he couldn’t tell you how he managed it, since he knew the place like the back of his hand. It didn’t concern him too much, half because he figured he would be fine, and half because he didn't care if he was fine or not. After walking for what felt like too long of a time, he stopped to look around more carefully, hoping to catch sight of something familiar. That was when he saw the flower, shining like a jewel from the middle of a fern at the base of one of the biggest trees. Stiles felt his eyes fill with unwanted tears. He knew that this was the flower his mother told stories about. He lifted his foot to stomp on it, to put out that horrible red glow that reminded him his mother wasn't here. He couldn't take it to her so she could see it. Nothing mattered; his mom was gone, she wasn’t coming back, and that was the only person he wanted. Whoever this flower brought would never be as good as his mother. He hovered with one foot in the air, then fell to his knees and just stared at it. He plucked it from the fern and tried to make his hands tighten around it, but even though he desperately wanted to crush it, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

There was a rustling in the greenery and Stiles jerked his head up. He felt eyes watching, and realized for the first time how dark it was without the lights from the town. It wasn’t scary when his mother was there, but he was alone now. He pushed himself up and shoved the flower in the pocket of his pants. The feeling of eyes didn’t go away, and he wondered if something would jump out to eat him. That would make his dad sad, though, so he hurried home as fast as his feet would go. He didn’t want to make his dad any more sad.

When he got close, he heard his dad in the back yard yelling for him, sounding scared. Stiles rushed over, and his dad wrapped him in a fierce hug and told him how worried he was and to never do that again. Stiles wondered why his dad didn’t notice the red glow that was so obviously spilling out of his pocket. He realized he must be the only one that could see it. That was why his mother’s looked like an ordinary dried blossom when she showed him. It was hers. Stiles didn’t tell his dad about the fern flower, afraid that it would just make him more sad to remind him that mom wasn’t there.

Once he was safely in his room, he pulled the flower out of his pocket. It wasn’t crumpled or broken, even though Stiles knew that an ordinary flower would have been crushed as he had run back home. Stiles frowned at it for a few minutes in confusion and ran his fingers over the petals, then pushed it as far under his bed as his arms would reach so he wouldn’t have to see it while he fell asleep.

A few days later, Stiles stood on a chair and got the box down. When he opened it, hoping to see his mother’s flower, he was greeted with a fine dust covering the inside. Stiles ignored the disappointed tears that welled in his eyes, and carefully carried the box to his room. He put his own flower in it, so at least he could pretend it was hers and he still had a piece of her. The box stayed under his bed. He would take it out before he slept and run his fingers over the carving on the top when memories of his mom hurt too much to bear.

Stiles tried not to think about when she said it would lead him to someone that loved him. He didn’t want to believe his mother would lie.

Over time he pulled it out less and less. He got a new bed, and the box moved to the top of his closet for safekeeping. It sat on the edge of the shelf so he could see it every morning before school. Eventually it became part of the background of his life, one of the unchanging things that his eye skirted over after a while. He never told anyone about it, not even Scott.

He grew older and entered high school. By the time he found out werewolves were real, the flower was the last thing on his mind.

Then one night he was at his desk when the box caught his eye. He got up and took it down from the shelf, carrying it carefully to the bed. He sat down and opened it. He didn’t know why he was worried the flower might have reverted to a dried husk. He rubbed one of the petals between his fingers and sighed.

It still glowed ruby red.

His window slid open and Stiles jolted, box clattering to the floor. He cupped both hands around the flower, hiding it against his chest as he backed away, but knew it was too late from the look on Derek’s face as he shut the window behind him. Derek took a deep breath through his nose and expression quickly shifted from concern to recognition. “I’ve smelled that flower before.”

“What.” Stiles gaped at him and clutched the flower closer.

“It was a full moon, and I was running in my other form when I heard you.” Derek’s eyes were distant, like he was recalling a long lost memory. “I didn’t understand why a little kid was in the middle of the forest and crying over a flower. When you took off running, I followed you back to town to make sure you were okay.” Derek looked alarmed and held out his hands like he could stop the tears Stiles could feel clouding his vision. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles uncurled one hand so he could scrub at his eyes. “Do you know what the significance of it is?”

Derek just shook his head, looking lost. His eyes slid to the flower peeking out of Stiles’ hand.

Stiles swallowed. “Mom told me it was supposed to lead you to the person you’re meant to be with.”

Derek stared for a long moment, then cautiously stepped closer, into Stiles’ personal space. “Did it?”

“I thought it meant I was supposed to be alone.” Stiles shrugged, self deprecating. “Then I pretended it was supposed to be Lydia, but I always knew I was wrong.” He never even tried to show it to Lydia. He knew, somewhere inside, that they were never meant to be together like his mother described.

Derek’s fingers flexed at his sides, arms tensing, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach out. Stiles made the decision for him and curled one arm around his neck while the other held the flower close to his chest between them. Derek buried his face in Stiles’ neck and breathed deep, arms coming around him and clutching at the back of his shirt.

How had he missed this right in front of him?

Stiles pulled back enough to open his hand and offer the flower to Derek, who looked startled for a brief moment, then recovered enough so Stiles could slide it into his upturned palm.

“It’s called a fern flower.” Stiles wanted to say more, but the words caught in Stiles’ throat while he watched Derek examine it. Derek held it like it was something precious and fragile.

“It didn’t glow red like this before,” Derek murmured and ducked his head, glancing up at Stiles, wary like he was afraid it was the wrong thing to say.

A laugh burst out of Stiles, high-pitched and watery. Derek immediately looked like he was about to take the words back, and Stiles wrapped a hand around his wrist to make him realize it was okay. "My dad couldn't see it shining out of my pocket that night. I think it’s only for the two meant to be together."

Derek looked down at the flower cupped in his hands and ran a fingertip over one of the petals. “Are you disappointed?”

Stiles grinned and touched their foreheads together. “You’re the first person I’ve let hold it or even see it at all.” Stiles said, bypassing his question. “What does that tell you?” He watched Derek work that over in his mind. He seemed to come to the right conclusion because a small smile worked across his lips. It was almost shy and Stiles wanted to see if he could get Derek to smile like that all the time. Happiness suited him far more than pain and guilt.

Turns out his mom was right after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Based with much creative liberty off the idea of [fern flowers](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fern_flower) and general slavic mythology after some 3am googling for where the hell the name Stilinski could have come from.


End file.
